Siren Song
by Sister Sunny
Summary: Deckerd is having a bad day. Truthfully, so is Gunmax. In fact, being stuck on an island together isn't helping that. Oh, and, they both told me to tell you — they're not lovers. Apparently. [Deckerd x Gunmax]
1. Chapter 1

The door swished aside, announcing his arrival.

Gunmax swaggered in with his usual self-assured strut, stopping in the middle of the room and glancing around. The day had been lethargic and slow for its duration, following an evening of excitement and celebration after solving another case. Deckerd may not have celebrated himself, but that did not excuse him from writing his report to Yuuta, the boy in question drowning in his own special hell, paperwork.

The teal mech stood there for a few seconds, expectant, before huffing and turning his attention to his favourite victim: Deckerd himself.

"Well?" He asked.

"No crushing embraces today? Did someone die?"

Power Joe lifted his helm from the desk, dimmed optics narrowing threateningly.

"Do you ever shut up?" He glowered.

The two mechs had a feud blazing between them; it had started before Gunmax had even been officially incorporated into the Brave Police. Deckerd had put down many an argument between them, and he was sure the entire precinct could hear it when he failed.

Gunmax pursed his lips, glaring at the offending mech. For a treacherous second, Deckerd feared he'd have to crush another shouting match. However, the visored mech relented, spinning on his heels and making for the door. "Fine," he spat. "Have it your way."

And just as dramatically as he had entered, he left again, the door punctuating the end of his sentence.

Deckerd sighed quietly, a tired concoction of resignation, relief and frustration.

"You don't have to be so rude. He was joking, you know." The Kung Fu detective struck his leader with an unimpressed stare, but Deckerd didn't back down, returning the deadpan gaze.

Beratement was on the tip of his tongue, and his lips parted decidedly, but he was interrupted from beginning his scolding by the main screen of the office crackling to life.

"Brave police, your presence is requested at Hiroshima bay. A man named Shukka Hejimemashou is terrorising the harbour, destroying shipping containers and oil tankers in an unidentified mech. Human casualty is minimal so far, but it is unsure if he will not move on to destroying houses and office buildings next." Saejimo appeared before them, face stoic, live video feeds cropping up around him.

Yuuta stood up, slamming his fist determinedly onto his desk, the coffee cup placed on it rattling and spilling over the side of the table onto the floor beneath.

He seemed to pay no mind.

"Well it's decided then. Brave police, to Hiroshima!" His rallying cry worked, and the present mechs stood up, saluting. The air was filled with a chorus of 'Yes sir!', and the room cleared out.

Deckerd frowned. Something was missing.

The brave police raced along the highway, sirens blaring. Hiroshima remained only kilometres away, and the city's skyline was beginning to peak out above the mountains. To his left and right, the build team and Duke drove on at their highest gear. Above him, Shadowmaru and Drill Boy flew alongside each other.

His frown deepened. _someone _ was missing.

Gunmax!

Deckerd swerved into the opposite lane of traffic, skidded, then stopped. Cars veered around him, honking furiously.

"Deckerd!" Yuuta exclaimed, fearful. "Deckerd, what is it?!"

Regaining his composure and weaving through oncoming traffic back into the correct lanes, he replied.

"Gunmax isn't here! I need- I mean- He should be with us!" Deckerd stumbled through the sentence in a panic, worried. No one had ever accused Gunmax of being careful, and with his luck he was likely on fire in a ditch at this point.

Yuuta seemed confused at first, before realisation dawned on him.

"You're right!" He produced the communicator from his pocket. "Gunmax!"

"Yo, boss. What's up?" At least he wasn't sulking anymore.

"There's an emergency at Hiroshima; we need you here, now!"

There was a pause.

"You're at Hiroshima? That's three hours from Nanamagari!"

Yuuta had the decency to look embarrassed.

"Well, we kinda forgot you weren't in the room, we all rushed out so quickly. But we need you here, now!"

The line grew silent, before a muttered "coming." broke it, and the call cut.

"Huh. Is he acting weird to you?" Yuuta asked.

Deckerd stayed silent, contemplating. Gunmax's moods varied, switching back and forth upon the slightest provocation. A small part of him found it… interesting. His processor nagged him; there was a better word he could use, of course, but he would sooner wash his CPU with hydrochloric acid than use it now. The rest of him just found it gave him a headache. The worst part was, he never knew why. And they switched most often around him.

Gunmax appeared in his rear view mirrors, donning his armour. The turbines were roaring with effort, and he was thundering forward. Suddenly, upon reaching Deckerd's location, he changed form, landing on his bike's wheels.

"_Hey, baby_." The accent slurred his words, but the English was still comprehensible.

"Gunmax." Deckerd acknowledged.

In the distance, a storm rumbled, promising nothing short of carnage and misery. The humidity was rising, too; it would seem the inevitable battle would not be a dry one.

The brave police team drove — or in Drill Boy and Shadowmaru's cases, flew — the remainder of the distance in relative silence, piercing it only in times necessity.

When they arrived, the police were already at the scene, attempting to suppress the mech from causing further property damage. The sky was an ominous black, a thick layer of cloud obstructed view of the sun beyond. The port was temporarily shut down, and shipping traffic could be seen loitering at the edge of the horizon, riding the choppy sea precariously. Some cranes had been thrown into the harbour, and the resulting waves had sent cargo ships capsizing. In the sea, hordes of containers floated just barely above the jagged waterline, and many more under it sunk to the harbour floor. Nearby office buildings were collapsing, and others looked seconds away from following suit in the perilous combination of flying shipping containers and hurricane-esque winds.

Sirens blared, and, Deckerd noticed, not all of them were police. Ambulances crowded around the mounds of rubble, and every so often a team would load a stretcher onto the vehicle. Duke seemed perturbed, and his digits twitched in frustration. Deckerd took pity on him. His thirst to help must have been unbearable, but a lifetime of strict disciplinary measures kept him from abandoning his company.

And taking centre stage, a mech several times larger than himself sent a crane crashing into a neatly organised stack of containers. The resulting domino effect hit a warehouse and caved in its roof.

"Yuuta, the unification command!" Deckerd cried, fearing an early getaway by the criminal.

"Oh, right!"

The signal sent out by the communicator reached all his compatriots, and those capable of combining did. He could feel it, the urge, the _need_ to combine, and he could hear it too. Distantly, the J-roader neared, speeding through any and all barriers and launching itself at its partner. Deckerd closed his optics, acting on instinct, sending himself flying into the primed docker, and retracting into the J-decker frame. The mouthguard shut against his face, and his vision transferred to that of his combined form.

Gunmax still had his armour on, and around him Duke Fire and Super Build Tiger looked as ready to fight as ever.

Gunmax glanced his way.

He nodded.

All at once, the scene burst into a flurry of activity. Duke Fire dashed forward, sword at the ready. Shadowmaru swooped down elegantly and proceeded to unload an entire barrage of missiles into the mech's optics. The glass cracked, and it stumbled back a few paces. The build team were charging the tiger beam, and the barrel was getting threateningly hot. Duke Fire was nearing the mech, rocketing forward at a speed nye unbelievable. However, the driver noticed it just in time to raise his arms in defence. The sword sliced through half of the right arm, but the resulting explosion knocked Duke several paces backwards. Recovering, he had little time to notice the priming laser on the mech's shoulder.

Gunmax did.

His oversized revolver sent an explosive round directly into the barrel, completely disabling the weapon in a sparking, crackling mess.

He gave Deckerd a sidelong glance. Deckerd looked back, attempting to decode it before it went away.

His desire, however, was cut short when the tiger beam finally unleashed itself directly into the chest of the robot, sending billowing clouds of smoke into the air. It was clear Shukka was nearing defeat, and Deckerd knew a losing man was a desperate one. They had to finish the fight, quick, before the criminal does something even rasher than his crimes.

He unholstered his J-buster, steadying it with both arms and taking aim.

Location: cockpit.

Fire.

A streak of gaseous heat flew to the desired position, combusting upon impact. The mech lost its footing and fell backwards, hitting an electricity pole and bringing it down with him. The robot's frame was seized by sparks and arcs of electricity, the ongoing fire inside the engines spreading at an exponential rate.

Then, movement ceased, and the pistons locked up.

They had won.

Gunmax flew to him, a smirk playing on his lips as he took front-and-centre in Deckerd's vision.

That self-assured, lovely, idiotic smirk.

"Enjoying the show?" He asked. It was rhetorical, this Deckerd knew, but in all honesty, he quite truly was, in a morbid way. The flashing lights, rising smoke and burning flames worked in beautiful harmony to frame the sculpted frame before him.

"Yes." He replied simply.

The expression on the other detective's faceplate sparked something inside him, something warm.

They touched down on the concrete floor, the ground underfoot quaking slightly at the impact. The build team had disassembled, and Dumpson was in the process of threatening the law-breaker inside. To any observer, it was clear Shukka was defeated, but he still had one last chance. And as Deckerd knew: a losing man was a desperate one.

So why hadn't he seen the missile coming?

It was laughable, really. It wasn't quite that subtle, and every one of the build team members noticed it. Gunmax did, too, shoving Deckerd with all the force he could muster. But Deckerd didn't know why, and, with the unhelpful aid of the J-decker frame, he resisted, barely moving an inch. In no plane of existence would that extra inch bypass the oncoming threat.

And the look that spread across Gunmax's features as he, too, realised this would haunt him forever.

The impact sent him reeling, the j-decker frame taking the brunt of the damage. The electromagnets disengaged from the momentary power outage, and his frame was thrown backwards, away from safety and into the crashing waves below.

His life flashed before his eyes — meeting Yuuta, the build team, Shadowmaru, Duke-

Meeting Gunmax was perhaps simultaneously the single best and worst thing that had ever happened to him, in hindsight.

His battered frame splashed gracelessly into the furious harbour, and the air was punched out of his vents. This was bad. He knew how to swim; popular media allowed a faint grasp on the activity, and an even fainter grasp on the execution, but with enough effort he knew he would eventually resurface. However, it would not stop most unprotected electronically based systems from short-circuiting.

Water and light didn't mix well, he knew. Refraction and splitting and distortion could all attest to this statement. The sun's rays pierced the twisting water above in curious ways, but Deckerd knew that the thrashing teal object that had just followed him in was not a trick of the light.

Gunmax was in here with him.

And it mattered not how little of a grasp Deckerd may have had on the aquatic sport, because Gunmax was in here with him.

And he _didn't_ know how to swim.

The waves were brutal in their mission — Gunmax felt the tumble and crash of another above him meeting its demise at the wall of the quay.

Their mission: Assassinate Gunmax of the Brave Police

Status: Ongoing…

His arms flailed, pushing and pulling against a slimy, resisting substance that felt suffocatingly dense.

He tried to scream, but could only watch in horror as his only source of buoyancy floated away in large, wobbling bubbles. The terrible liquid filled his oral cavity and slipped through his vents, making him shudder in disgust.

The joviality of it all only made his impending death ache that much more.

No, this couldn't be, he still had things to do! He still had people he wanted to talk to, to see, it couldn't end like this! He needed his happy ending, Damn it! He needed it. He…

He was going to die, wasn't he?

He would never get to see his friends again. Deckerd would likely never see him again, or news would broadcast his dead corpse lying on the ocean floor nationwide, and Kirrisaki would be on the ground, rolling, laughing. Then Deckerd would see him. Then Deckerd would _see_ him.

Then Deckerd would care.

Arms curled around his midsection, squeezing tightly. The light was nearing, he was rising.

The touch was angelic, almost. Supporting and sure, yet gentle and kind. They brought him skywards, towards heaven beyond.

Gunmax was pliant in his servos, a worrying symptom of losing consciousness. It wouldn't make any sense for a mech of their capacity to _drown_, but Deckerd wouldn't put it past any of them to lose focus in shock. The petrifyingly cold waters of April Hiroshima bay would surprise anybody, let alone one afraid of the ocean and incapable of swimming.

It was no use to try to speak to him while beneath the waterline, so Deckerd tried his best to squeeze life back into the frame he was rescuing.

They breached the surface, both gasping and wheezing.

"Gunmax! Gunmax, stay with me, hold on tight!"

The biker regained a hold on reality, turning around.

"Dekkado! For a second there, I thought I was-" A wave slammed into them both, nearly knocking Gunmax away from him, but Deckerd persisted, keeping his grip on the other detective firm and unyielding, kicking them back up to wonderful air and the ability to converse.

"-Dead!" Gunmax finished, gulping air and some saline, too.

"Gunmax, no matter what happens you stay with me and hold on tight, got it?"

The mech in question nodded seriously.

"I trust you."

And when the next batch of water dumped itself on their heads, Gunmax held tightly to his lifeline.


	2. Chapter 2

Waves lapped at his pedes, softly caressing the rocket boosters and metal framework. The sun shined bright and alone in a cloudless sky. Striking through the impeccable blue would fly the uncommon aircraft, leaving long, thin contrails in their wake. Birds squawked and flapped their wings, and a rustle of branches would give away a prey's position.

The frame lying atop him suddenly rolled over, heaving and coughing. Saltwater dripped from their chin, and their voice sounded raw.

"What…" They coughed violently, slamming their servos into their frame a few times before continuing.

"What happened…?" They looked around, searching. It wasn't long until they spotted the frame just beside them.

"Good afternoon, Gunmax." The frame greeted them merrily, smiling.

"Deckerd! Where are we? What happened?!" Gunmax was growing visibly distressed, but the lead detective grabbed his arm, stopping him from getting up.

"It's alright. We're safe, I think."

"Hope, you mean." Gunmax grouched.

"Hope." The blue mech amended, smiling softly.

A silence stretched between the two — not awkward, but far from comfortable.

The biker seemed lost for the first time since Deckerd had met him, and it unnerved him greatly.

"It's alright, though. We'll find a way." The comfort was plain, simple, and admittedly shallow. However, it got Gunmax out of his brooding, so Deckerd counted it as a plus.

"Yeah, okay, fine. But right now, no ideas are coming to my processor. What with my low gas, dysfunctional communicator, GPS and chronometer — not to mention a distinct lack of service, the notion seems a bit stupid. Do _you_ have any, great and flawless leader?" The grimace on his face certainly wasn't pleasant, even less so when it was being directed quite harshly at him, but the silence had been penetrated and they were finally getting somewhere.

"My frame didn't flood quite as badly as yours. Most of my internal devices are still online and running, including my GPS and chronometer. With these tools, we could start progress on a plan." Deckerd had a hopeful lilt to his tone and looked up at the mech still sitting above him with meaningful optics.

The sour downturn of his Gunmax's lips melted away, leaving only a furrowed brow in its wake.

"Well where are we, then? You said your GPS is functioning, so use it."

"We're at Onasabi island, ten kilometres from the port of Hiroshima." The response was concise; to the point.

"Damn. I'm too low on fuel to make it there, not with a payload." And there the grimace sat again, usurping the regal throne of Gunmax's lips for its own malevolent, ugly use.

Deckerd hated it when Gunmax grimaced.

Their positions remained unchanged, Gunmax still lying atop Deckerd, gazing skyward in thought. It was nearly uncomfortable, but the warmth the frame pressed up against him emanated made up for any downsides. Gunmax was larger than him when in his armour, he noted. Not a note of discontent. In truth, Deckerd found it all quite…

Nice.

But the answer to their predicament shone bright and clear to the smaller mech, and the simplicity of it appealed to him, too.

"Don't carry a payload, then." He stated.

"You moron, _you're_ the payload." The teal mech growled.

Deckerd had known this.

"Yes, I am. Don't carry the payload, Gunmax, or you won't make it there."

The seriousness of the suggestion was beginning to dawn on the biker.

"No, Deckerd, because _you_ are the payload."

The air carried no sound, for a while.

"Deckerd, I'm not leaving you behind." There was a warning in the low, baritone voice, but Deckerd didn't heed it.

"It's the only way." The mech shrugged, nonplussed.

"_THE ONLY-_ mech, are you _hearing yourself_ right now?! I'm not leaving you on this tropical hell, I just won't!" Gunmax was shouting now, and his visor glinted.

"We will _both_ die if you don't do this, Gunmax." His optics narrowed dangerously, threateningly.

Gunmax ripped his arm from Deckerd's grip, pushing himself away. He stood up, rising to his full height above the mech beneath.

"AND HOW EXACTLY IS THAT ANY BETTER THAN JUST YOU?! YOU ACT AS IF YOU DON'T EVEN MAT-" Suddenly, his voice box broke down, hissing static and screeching incomprehensibly.

The hostile expression on Deckerd's face evaporated, replaced by one of sheer horror.

"Gunmax-!" It was in his attempt to follow the mech to a standing position that he quite suddenly realised his left leg was compromised, dragging him faceplate first into the sand.

The temporarily mute detective's optics spiralled wide, crouching down to attend to the fallen mech.

He opened his mouth and, in a panic, forgot exactly what had just happened to his vocaliser.

When he tried to speak, a harsh, piercingly shrill tone resonated through the area. Both immediately stopped what they were doing to cover their audials in pain. When Deckerd recovered, he was greeted with the pitiful sight of Gunmax lying on his back, faceplate conveying a deep misery and pain.

Deckerd pulled himself along the coarse sand scraping against his paintjob, then deposited himself beside the other detective.

"Gunmax…" His voice was mournful but empathetic.

"Gunmax, can you hear me?" He was quiet even to himself after the scream, so his expectations were distinctly cheerless. The nod in return served to rejuvenate his spirit.

"It's… it's okay. You don't have to do anything you don't want to do. We can just lie here for a while. I'll stay with you until you can speak again, alright?" His voice was feather-light and dulcet. He laid down, stretching out against the hot surface. Deckerd shut off his optics, and was content to idle while Gunmax's voice recuperated.

"Deckerd…" The gravelly, rough and low voice roused him from his slumber. It was unpleasantly harsh, like a whisper-shout.

And yet, it was the most beautiful thing Deckerd had heard all day.

A gentle smile grew across his mouth, a barely-there upturn of the corners of his lips, unnoticeable from a distance.

When he opened his optics, Gunmax's faceplate hovered threateningly close to his, but only concern appeared on them.

Lean forward.

Why?

Lean forward.

No.

"Good…" His optics looked past the mech's helm, gazing shortly into the deep blue sky and setting sun beyond. "evening, Gunmax. I trust you find your voice sufficiently recovered?"

A pleasant quiet filled the silent gap, lethargic in its comfort.

"…Yes. I do."

"Do you want to explore the island?" Deckerd posed the suggestion entirely as a question. There were to be no demands for the rest of the day, he had decided.

"…Later." Gunmax laid back down beside him, stretching.

"Tomorrow, then?" Deckerd queried. A teasing lilt flowed playfully through his tone.

"Yeah." He responded.


	3. Chapter 3

"Hey, Gunmax. Wake up, Gunmax: we need to go." The voice was subtly urgent, yet held an everlasting patience buried within it. He loved it — how couldn't he love it? It compelled him to raise his head, but that was potentially one of the worst decisions he had ever made.

Upon doing so, he was struck with a dizziness so fierce he had no choice but to settle back down. The urge to purge was near overwhelming, and a scowl etched itself into his faceplate.

"Tell the world to stop spinning." He snarled.

"That would be counter-intuitive. The day/night cycle would halt completely, then where would we be at?" Ah. Hello, Deckerd.

"Shut up." Gunmax groaned. It was half-hearted, and held about as much malicious intent as a blade of grass, but his helmache seemed content in staying a while and the pounding in his processor did, too.

His servo clenched as another throb hit him full-force. Clenched around a servofull of _sand_.

A devious grin lit up his features, snaking mischievously across his faceplate. He cracked open an optic, barely, just enough to gather Deckerd's location atop him.

He faked a yawn, tightening his digits around his servo's payload as he brought the closed appendage nearer to the artificially gaping mouth.

And in the last second, he struck — his fist opening, unleashing the hailstorm of the coarse substance directly into-

The open air.

Deckerd was looking quite nefarious, standing up with both fists suspiciously balled, a vexatious smirk playing upon his lips. _Standing up._ His leg was healed.

Oh no.

Gunmax rolled away, previous processor pain forgotten, as he dodged the oncoming plethora of grainy, ground up rock and pebbles.

He whipped around, optics screaming of mock-betrayal. Diving for the nearest form of cover — a double-trunked palm tree that covered about twelve percent of his body, according to his combat readouts — he scooped more of the tiny pellets into his palms, joints curling carefully as he cupped the heaped ammunition.

A dangerous yet necessary glance around his biotic shield revealed a floundering Deckerd scanning his environment for protection. Upon finding none, he resumed his onslaught.

Ducking back behind the trunk and crouching low to decrease exposed surface area, he yelled out a threat.

"I've got the upper hand, Deckerd! Give it up!"

"You can't make me!"

Well then. He wished it hadn't come to this. He really did. But the mech left him no choice.

Deckerd had been approaching slowly, cautiously — and now he was mere metres from his cover. It was time to shine.

He sprung out from behind the tree, relishing the surprise on his partner's face before he tackled him to the ground.

"Yield!" He roared, grabbing hold of the other's servos.

"_Yield_!" He repeated, slamming the pair above Deckerd's head.

"Alright, alright! I yield. There, happy now?" An actual, full-blown _pout_ pursed the blue mech's lips, and he looked away dejectedly.

"Very." He responded, a smug smirk settling on his faceplate.

"Oh, by the way — your leg. Is it alright?" Concern seeped into his tone against his will, but his façade of innocent curiosity stood strong.

Deckerd's expression fell.

"Slightly. It might heal fully in a day or two: I just need to move it a little. Right now, it hurts to run."

Gunmax was straddling the lead detective, and once a silence settled in, he awkwardly removed himself.

"Um. Yeah, right. So- uh… hm." Gunmax had forgotten what he was going to say.

Deckerd picked up the slack with enthusiasm.

"We need to explore this island if we are to have any hope of finding fuel. Perhaps there's an abandoned settlement. Or better yet, an occupied one!" Childlike glee still shone through his optics, but his tone now spoke business. "There may yet be a few gas canisters, scattered around." It wasn't uncommon that Decker's expectations or hopes surprised him, whether from their unrepentant ridiculousness or sheer positivity.

It was uplifting, if nothing else. When he was around Deckerd, he felt powerful — a better version of himself. His presence alone could make Gunmax's day a good one.

"Alright, fine. Let's go."

The detective smiled kindly, soft quirks at the corners of his mouth.

But he was vulnerable. Deckerd could wrench his metaphorical heart out of his frame with as simple as a downturned lip in his direction. Deckerd could utterly ruin him so _easily_.

And it scared him.

Deckerd knew him. He could probably play him like an instrument, by now. But he didn't, and he never had, and, and-

And Gunmax _trusted him_, damn it- and he hadn't broken that trust yet.

And meeting Deckerd was probably simultaneously the single best and worst thing that had ever happened to him, in hindsight.

Gunmax was unsure how to support Deckerd. Currently, Deckerd was just keeping close, but the rocky, naturally formed pathway leading between the palm trees as high as they were tall provided many an opportunity for the blue mech to lose his footing. His leg — left, thankfully. He likely would have been immobilised if his dominant leg had been eliminated — was distinctly uncooperating; limp and useless behind the rest of his frame as he worked with the environment around him, using it as a third-rate crutch to drag the deadweight along.

Inefficient was an understatement. Travelling like this was a waste of resources, and Deckerd knew it.

"Gunmax, do you still think you can make it to the mainland?" When the mech turned to check on him, Deckerd had stopped. He was looking neither angry nor frustrated. "With your remaining fuel, could you make it?"

He looked defeated.

The visored mech narrowed his optics. They weren't having this argument again, he refused.

"No."

"Huh?" The confused mech had raised his optics from the ground, and they were now in his, searching.

"I said no. I'm not fighting with you. I hate me when I do, I hate you when I do, and I hate hating you even more. Take it either way you want— no." Gunmax appeared resigned. His shoulders were slumped, and he wasn't looking back anymore; his gaze rested solely on a pebble before him. Letting out a roar of frustration, he lashed out, sending the rock flying away to a place unknown.

Few words were exchanged as they reached the apex of the hill, but they climbed slightly further apart, now.

At the peak of the island, an old, likely abandoned radio tower stretched skyward above the treeline. A red light periodically blinked on and then back off, inconsistent in its flashes. Perhaps not currently operational, but it was still powered. Gunmax was sure that with just a little _coercing_, he could make the tower sing.

Sing a distress call, granted, but he was indiscriminate in his labelling; a song that spoke of love and romance differed very little to one that screamed for help, to Gunmax.

Upon nearing the landmark, Deckerd let out a mildly impressed sound akin to a hum. "A radio tower." He remarked.

"Really, boy scout? You sure about that one? Not gonna double check your database for any potential mistakes?" Gunmax didn't know why he was taking out his anger on the lead detective — he had no right to. But the wrong place and the wrong time had culminated into this; there was no turning off the tap once the sardonic statements began to flow.

"What's next, you're gonna tell me that the sky's blue? What do you mean grass is green? Yeah, no fucking shit it's a radio tower, Sherlock. Slap my aft and call me Watson, that isn't exactly the unveil of the century. You know what else isn't? We're stuck on an uninhabited island ten kilometres from civilization, I'm running out of juice and you're not running at all for the foreseeable future! Together, through the power of cooperation and friendship: Gunmax and his suicidal injured teammate have to brave the harsh wilderness on their own! Sound like the start of a bad joke, not an _obituary_." He spat out the final word, turning away and glaring daggers at the rocky floor once more.

It took a few seconds for him recompose himself, but he did so eventually.

"Look, look I'm. I'm sorry…" He hazarded a glance at Deckerd, but the blue mech only looked saddened as he stared back. Saddened and pitying.

Gunmax hated pity.

It made him feel inadequate; worse than the competition.

It made him feel ashamed, as if he wasn't enough already.

Scoffing in indignation, he focussed his attention on the mast, nearing it. In close proximity to chain-link fence surrounding it cowered a small, lonely and out-of-sight brick shed with a resonant transformer supplying electricity to the complex. Taking the slightly less subtle path, Gunmax punched the door in and neared the now opened opening. Inside, he spied the control panel for the tower. Following his own trend, he hooked two digits on the top of the doorframe and pulled the roof off of the shack.

"Gunmax…" Deckerd's tone was disapproving, but Gunmax didn't care. Not yet, anyway. Now, he had a mission; and if he had to hurt Deckerd to save him, then he would. And now that he could, he will.

The walls looked dubiously upright without a ceiling, as if the building would barely withstand a gust of wind. Or a brush of metal, as Gunmax had just proved in his noticeably reckless attempt to reach his arm into the room. The bricks had fallen outwards and away from the delicate wiring, but Deckerd keened none the quieter.

"_Gunmax_..." He repeated, more of a plea, now, than a reprimand.

"Sorry." The mech mumbled in English.

Deckerd's frown lessened, then disappeared entirely when a series of beeps indicated his partner's entrance to the antenna's operating system.

"Have you…?" The mech was guarded in his hope, but leaned forward anyway.

Gunmax tensed momentarily, the foreign touch seeming alien to him. Deckerd's chin was snugly placed on his pauldron, and the soft, warm venting of the mech brushed against his exposed backstrut. Humiliatingly, Gunmax's fans whirred on.

And unsurprisingly, the extremely forced coughs that followed did very little to cover up the fact.

Deckerd didn't seem to mind, however. He waited patiently behind the overheating mech, silent in his civility.

"Yeah: that's it. That's access to the outside world."

Gunmax leaned backwards for support — his haunches could only handle so much, naturally. The quiet mech held him still, allowing him momentary rest against him.

Deckerd had waited long enough. It was time to go home.

Lazily, his arm reached out, interfacing with the ports beneath the panel.

Three dots.

Three dashes.

Three dots.

01010011

01001111

01010011

S

O

S

The sound clip of an alarm siren.

The coordinates of their location.

Their names.

Withdrawing from the connection, the teal mech fell, his legs losing tension beneath him. The ground, enthusiastic in its opportunity, came rushing up to meet him.

And abruptly stopped when arms curled around his midsection, squeezing tightly.

When his balance tipped slightly, they hauled him back upright, steadying him with a gentle grace.

"Thanks, Dekkado." He twisted, looking back at the mech behind him.

"You're welcome, Gunmax."

Small steps. Baby steps.

To where — he didn't know. He was, however, uncompromisingly _certain_ that he wanted the destination. The desire thrummed within his core like base programming, nearly indistinguishable from the lines of code that enabled him to live.

Deckerd smiled when he responded; his signature Deckerd smile that reached his optics and quirked his lips.

The signature Deckerd smile that set his internals ablaze — that set his heart alight.

That signature Deckerd smile he didn't know he craved so much.

Not until now; not until he found himself mourning its presence.

"We'll have to wait a while for any sort of response. The game of distress signals is a waiting one." He noted, breaking the silence precipitously.

"Oh? Shame." An honest-to-god _smirk_ carved itself into Deckerd's faceplate, stretching the mouthpiece into an expression Gunmax couldn't help but feel guilty for.

"Indeed. Any suggestions?" He cocked his helm and hips, lids lowering playfully and grin spreading across his visage.

"Explore the rest of the island, perhaps. There could be fuel nearby." Deckerd dropped his guise, replacing the distinctly out of character look with his comfortingly common kind and determined beam.

A vague disappointment nagged the edge of his processor with the truth that he had not, in fact, corrupted the mech, but he pushed the distraction back and replied with similar seriousness.

"You're right. Let's go."

"Baby, there aren't settlements here. We would've seen any from the hill." The English transitioned awkwardly into Japanese, but Gunmax sounded earnest despite the whine his tone adopted.

"It's either that or you…" He seemed troubled by what his processor supplied, and visibly opted for an alternative. "…lose consciousness. It's one or the other, _baby_, so let's not be too hasty in our conclusions." A frown spread across Deckerd's forehelm: concern was beginning to trickle into his voice, hardening it both in tone and resolve.

Gunmax pursed his lips in silent disapproval, but begrudgingly admitted the merit in Deckerd's statement. Exaggerated, yes. Untruthful?

Never.

Gunmax nearly collided with the mech he was tailing when they halted unexpectedly, crouching.

"Deckerd!" The name held a variety of emotions within it, from chastise to surprise, but the name's owner seemed unphased.

"Look!" The lead detective whispered ineffectively as he pointed into the forest ahead, alerting all fauna within earshot of their potentially threatening attendance.

The biker peered over the blue mech's pauldron, briefly appreciating the humour of their reversed positions.

"A fox!" The blue mech crowed, tentatively inching forward as quietly as he could.

The canine had noticed them, but it sat simply and peacefully, unmoved and unperturbed. Its tail swished lazily, and their snout pointed regally at Deckerd's digit tip: sniffing curiously.

"They like you." Gunmax commented offhandedly. Granted, his beyond limited knowledge of wildlife left his conclusion so unfailingly empty; to ignore it would be the wisest choice, but his colleague seemed so enamoured with the concept he squeaked out a happy "Really?" before turning around to strike Gunmax with an expression of unabashed wonder.

His optics held their typical golden sheen, but inside them glimmered hope, awe, and something else.

_Love_.

Gunmax didn't know to whom the final emotion was being directed to — him, the creature? It was an enigma. In his righteous opinion, he deserved it more; he would be a _far_ better-

Friend.

Completely platonic friend. Supporting, kind friend.

"Yes," He responded abruptly, shaking himself from his own reverie with impatience.

"Really."

Deckerd returned to his observing, sitting cross-legged as the biotic lifeform stared at him and humming contentedly with a large, dopey smile stretching his lips.

Wordlessly, Gunmax sat down beside him.

And when Deckerd looked over, the visored mech had a suspiciously similar unrestrained grin on his faceplate.

The fox had long since wandered off, unsatisfied with its entertainment, but neither mech had stirred yet in the hour of silence that had ensued the staring competition. Not out of an aptitude for indolence or lethargy: no. Instead, a peculiar contentment had stretched between the two — and neither had the heart to break it, not in either definition.

Fortunately, the ruthlessly determined virtue of _time itself_ lived as a concept; without need for blood of any sort. It lived without emotion, but its cruel acts seemed undyingly unnecessary nonetheless.

Gunmax hated it. Its ticking impatience, sluggish boredom, unfeeling indecency. He hated it all, but he wanted so much more. He wanted so much more than the little he had.

"We don't have long until the sun begins to set, we should continue our exploration." A level-headed and rational recommendation, certainly.

A likeable one?

In no discernible way, shape nor form.

But time itself ticked and tocked without pause; and the sand drained from the hourglass in a trickling, steady stream; and the gears of the clock spun smoothly — well-oiled as they were — and time slipped away, and his hours grew shorter.

Gunmax arose in silence, accepting the proffered servo with a nod of thanks.

The mossy greenish-brown mud they traversed across squelched unpleasantly against the base of Deckerd's pedes, a notable minority sticking stubbornly to the previously clinically white surface. His backstrut was protesting insistently now, and an ache had sprung at his midsection. The alternative, however, witnessed him pushing his faceplate uncaringly through frond after frond of the helm-high surrounding palm trees, and the concept appealed very little to the unvisored mech.

"Deckerd…" His partner keened pitifully, a servo grabbing unhappily at his pauldrons and tugging weakly.

"Gunmax?" He inquired, turning. The mech was exhausted; his venting sounded suppressed and his legs were stiff with strain and effort. He had been quiet, but to who's benefit? And why?

None of it mattered but the facts, to Deckerd — a coping mechanism he used to evaluate the least incorrect response to a difficult situation — and he reviewed the facts.

Fact: They needed the reconnaissance for fuel.

Fact: Deckerd had been unknowingly causing Gunmax's fatigue by not stopping in his exploration.

Fact: Deckerd was slightly guilty.

Conclusion: Make it up to Gunmax.

He smirked.

"Tired?"

An affirming groan responded heavily.

The smirk grew.

He walked jauntily to Gunmax, an amused swagger to his step as he stopped in front of the weary mech, sly in his body language and teasing in his posture.

His servos landed softly on Gunmax's chassis, left slithering around the frame to the backstrut and right trailing downwards towards the pelvic plating, then past it.

The servos found their desired resting places and the digits tensed, gripping tightly. Deckerd laughed softly as he hoisted the biker into his bridal cradle, smiling affectionately down at the confused, drowsy detective and winking an optic.

A self-conscious blush crept up the white polymer of Gunmax's cheeks, his visor glinting in the setting sun's final vestiges of light.

"Don't worry," Deckerd crooned warmly.

"I'll take care of you."

"I'll take care of you." The mech said.

_I'll take care of you._

Gunmax was warm in his core — humiliation, he thought. Not affection, he hoped. He was asleep. They had fallen asleep, hadn't they? He'd wake up the next morning. This was a dream. He was dreaming. He was warm, and soft and gooey and his legs felt like gelatine but far weaker and his thought process was fuzzy and unsure at the edges; he was, he felt. He felt like he was. Like he was in…? With someone? He was in here with someone, and he hoped they were in it with him too.

The someone was Deckerd, he thought. The someone was Deckerd, he hoped.

The sentence left him feeling, left him being. Feeling warm, and soft and gooey. Being fuzzy, and unsure and in. And in…?

He loved feeling. He loved being.

He loved feeling the feeling.

He loved being in…?

The game of distress signals is a waiting one, but he didn't feel he'd be alive to finish it. His fuel tank had long since run out, and his reserves were laughably present. Mostly, he was running on fumes. And when the fumes finally ran out, he'd be gone, too.

Death by starvation was not a pleasant one. The mech would slowly begin to lose power to their limbs, one by one shutting off power intensive non-essential systems. First, the lower half of the body would weaken, beginning with the pedes. Next, the upper. Speech would become slurred. Cognitive abilities dampened. Vision blurred. Finally, the senses would give in, and his memory cells would lose power and wipe. Everything, anything — none of it mattered, in the end.

Unlike Deckerd. Deckerd would forever matter. He would be remembered always, by everyone, by Gunmax. Even when the memory cells delete their contents, Deckerd will still be there. His friend, his partner, his…

His…

The world around him was losing focus, and the colours less sure. Whites became greys, which became blacks. Deckerd, his- He was- calling out, exclaiming- saying- shouting-

"Gunma…!" What was he shouting? He was screaming it so loudly, so clearly; but nothing made sense. It was sharp, clear, precise — but it trailed off at the ends, and seemed to echo within his processor.

A part of him was being opened. Maybe.

He was being held, that was for sure. Was he? No, that must have been the rocks beneath slamming into him. He was slamming into them. He had fallen over, but there were quick, panicked vents exploding against his frame. He was being squeezed, he was quite sure, he thought; he hoped.

He hoped that it was Deckerd holding him, attempting to gather the life seeping out of him and squeeze it back in.

He hoped Deckerd knew that… that Gunmax… that he was his…

His-


	4. Chapter 4

The last droplets of petrol dripped from the edges of the pelvic intake, the pale yellow oil flowing briefly along the rim before falling in small batches into the fuel panel opposite its open doors.

Now frail in its exhaustion, the frame rolled off its topped up partner, sighing heavily. The door to its tanks shut with an air of finality, ending the procedure.

An arm reached out unhurried, fumbling visibly before forcefully shutting the other frame's intake with its digits.

The mech vented again, a smile creeping onto his lips.

It was done.

_He_ was alright; that's all that mattered.

And now they could both rest. And now he could awake.

Peacefully. _Alive._

Gunmax.

The visored mech awoke slowly and groggily — unsure, confused, questioning.

Something was off.

He ran a self-diagnostics check, scanning through his internal systems.

The reports came back green for every operation.

The reports came back green for fuel levels.

Something was _off_.

His memory cells struggled weakly to recall prior events, drawing blanks and coming up empty.

Who was he again?

Gunmax.

Ha. Of course. Who else?

Deckerd.

—Who was he?

Your.

Who was—

Everybody, everything, everytime. Your…

Who-

Your love.

Ha. Of course. Who else?

Nobody.

Only Deckerd.

Only us.

Only us, now.

His optics spiralled open without haste, lethargically allowing light to reach his photoreceptors. The scene came into focus around him, the blurred colours receding into a vignette, then finally away from his field of vision as clarity spread from the centrepoint in an expanding circle.

Why was it only them: where were they?

Where was Deckerd?

A groan sounded from his vocaliser as he pushed his chassis away from the sandy beach turned sandy berth, peering around in search of his-

Lover?

Were they?

No.

-In search of his love.

Deckerd's frame appeared in his peripheral vision, limp. Powerless. Unpowered.

"Dekkado?" A voice resonated through the peaceful atmosphere.

Waves lapped at his pedes, softly caressing the rocket boosters and metal framework. The sun shined bright and alone in a cloudless sky. Striking through the impeccable blue would fly the uncommon aircraft, leaving long, thin contrails in their wake. Birds squawked and flapped their wings, and a rustle of branches would give away a prey's position.

Sound pierced his audials from all directions, yet to him the silence was suffocating.

"Dekkado!" The voice spoke again, many decibels louder as it transitioned from a whisper to a shout midway through the nickname.

It was only in the hyper-aware haze his processor cast on the area that he realised the voice was his.

He scrambled upwards, kicking himself onto his pedes and running the short distance before collapsing again, his legs giving in near to the unfuelled frame and his arms taking the brunt of the fall. Stiff, Powerful. Powered.

Fuelled.

Fuelled, because-

The reports came back green for fuel levels.

Fuelled, because Deckerd wasn't.

Because Deckerd should've been, would've been, could've been, if he hadn't emptied it, emptied it into-

Into him.

Deckerd would forever matter. He would be remembered always, by everyone, by Gunmax. Even when the memory cells delete their contents, Deckerd will still be there. His friend, his partner, his…

His love.

Gunmax keeled over, hunching his backstrut as he lowered his faceplate to that of Deckerd's, shouting, rasping. Shouting at him to wake up, but still that damn smile played softly upon his lips.

His love, who he had just killed.


	5. Chapter 5

No.

He was alive.

They were _both_ alive.

But if that were the case, why was he motionless? Why did his optics refuse to online as Gunmax begged them to? Why did his unresponsive frame lie cold, unmoving and pathetically _lifeless_ on the sandy grave it sank into?

The normally shimmering gold of Deckerd's optics had fallen into a black void, all-consuming in its totality.

"_No_."

The rasp escaped his vocaliser through sheer brute force, clawing at the walls of his throat and shredding his calm like it did its passage.

"No!"

Again, again the scream shredded his core, infallibly agonising, _excruciating_-

Deckerd, alive- not alive, he wanted him alive but he _wasn't_-

He wasn't alive, he was _dead_, it was Gunmax's fault, why did Deckerd want to die? It wasn't fair! It was unjust. It was so horribly and completely unfair and he _hated_ it all. He hated it.

He hated it because it took away the one thing he loved, cherished, held dear.

He hated it because it took away Deckerd.

Screams reverberated through the beach: denials, pleads and incomprehensible cries of protest mixed unfiltered and unrefined. Come back, don't leave me here. I don't want you to go. I don't want you to go.

Don't go, Deckerd.

The mech stayed.

Lying in the sandy grave he stayed, and he smiled lightly — a joke Gunmax hadn't heard, or perhaps simply hadn't understood, but either way none of it was _funny_, it was unjust, unfair-

He laughed.

It was short, painful, high-pitched: it all coalesced into a sob far better than it did a snort and it tore and scraped like the exclamations before it had.

"Deckerd!" He repeated, many a decibel louder.

Cold, unmoving, pathetically lifeless in its still frame.

But warm, flowing and delightfully alive in its demure and gentle smile.

His tanks sloshed as he sat beside the offlined corpse.

The disgusting noise splashed subtly within him, but to Gunmax the sound was deafening; all consuming in its particular brand of low-decibel and high-frequency.

Out of the corner of his vision, an oil tanker manifested. Teasing him. Mocking him.

He should have fuelled.

The thought had birthed itself into his processor long before Deckerd had-

…But it lingered just barely in the background, whispering harshly, quietly of doubts, second guesses, second thoughts.

Now it preened in the spotlight of his processor's grieving stage in a mix of smug pride and toxic contempt.

He should have fuelled.

Maybe Deckerd wouldn't have had to save him, then. Maybe they could've both been happy on the island, together. Maybe Deckerd wouldn't have had to empty his fuel tanks to fill his.

Maybe Deckerd would've been alive.

The waves lapped at his pedes.

He should have. What if? Maybe he could've.

Yes, he should have. Yes, what if? Yes, maybe he could've. But he _didn't_, damnit, and nothing he did now would've changed it. _Nothing._

But it didn't stop him from hoping.

Hoping that Deckerd was alive. Hoping that Deckerd still loved him.

In a fit of frustration, Gunmax roared as he kicked an oncoming wave.

The ensuing splash rose a few metres, then landed back where it belonged in the sea beyond.

Belonged.

Deckerd belonged with him. He deserved him. He was his and his alone, not some plaything life could toss away once bored. He was more than just a mech, more than the sum of his parts. Not just a detective, not just a colleague, not just a friend.

To Gunmax, he was _so much more._

He felt a pinprick on the back of his neck. Someone was looking at him.

_It was all his fault._

Wasn't it? He had come to a mission underfuelled. He had weighed down Deckerd in the rough waters of the bay. He had been the recipient of his self-sacrificing generosity.

It was all his fault, wasn't it?

It was.

There wasn't enough time to mope and hope. To theorise and debate.

It _was_.

His targeting systems alerted him to a danger. He wasn't alone.

A blatant lie: Of course he was.

He glanced backwards, for the token of certainty.

Deckerd lay on his sandy grave.

Somebody was watching him.

Deckerd was watching him.

If he could've swam, he could've saved them both.

The waves lapped at his pedes — tantalisingly, teasingly, as if mocking him for his inability. For his incompetence, ignorance, infatuation with idiocy.

He took a step towards the horizon; the waterline swallowed more of his stabilisers.

A single thought invaded his processor as he pushed on.

A step, another. A sprint, a leap; the calm seas rose to his abdomen.

He dived forwards, arms crashing against the foamy white liquid as it rose rapidly above his chestplate.

Another jump aimed at the deceptively peaceful waters and his helm was threatening to dip under.

A wave slammed against his faceplate and he gasped, terrified.

Frustration, rage, self-loathing.

Why couldn't he _just_-

He let the tidal current push him back to the beach.

If he could've swam, he could've saved them both.

Deckerd was watching him.

Out of the corner of his optic, when his back was turned.

The smirk he donned wrenched Gunmax apart.

He had failed him. He was a-

Smug in its carefree upturned corners, condescending in its gentleness.

He was disappointed, he could tell.

Because he was a-

Failed attempts to revive his offlined partner built up in the coming days, and occasional bouts of uncontrollable sobbing plagued his mornings. Dreams of Deckerd screaming woke his fitful rests come night and unpleasant conversations he had had with his colleague haunted his thoughts by day.

The frame beneath him was beginning to lose its sheen. The formerly pristine blues and whites grew sun-bleached, pale, scuffed and scraped — sand and grit settled comfortably into the transformation seams — some of the kibble was dented and bent in painful manners. Both wear and tear were beginning to present themselves.

But onwards did the clock tick, ruthless in its unbiased continuation, and Gunmax was left behind with a corpse for his love and without time as a guide.

Out of the corner of his vision, an oil tanker manifested.

Deckerd would never know.

That he was sorry. That he was trying. That he loved him.

Deckerd would never know.

His fault. His damn, stupid, undeniably solely his, unending, unwavering, utterly and _complete_.

Watching him. Deckerd was-

And without him he was incomplete.

Without him he was nothing, nobody.

Who was he?

Gunmax could feel the tingle of the look, boring into the back of his helm as he turned away.

The movement churned the oil in his tanks.

Sandy grave.

Candy crave.

Out of the corner of his vision, an oil tanker manifested.

The sweet sweetness of sugar in the oil. Oily, grimy, Sweet, smooth and slippery and _sweet_ as it dripped from his lips.

His glossa darted out to catch the droplets.

He glanced at his lover.

Smiling softly.

Smiling sweetly.

He grunted in dull pain as his chassis made contact with the rocky plateau beneath him. The cliffside loomed above him, casting its ominous shadow across his limp frame.

His digits reached up to lightly prod at the newest scratch on his chestplate, scratching at it slightly and dancing over the leaking lifeblood.

He giggled slightly.

He think he got the joke, finally.

The joke was him.

Dripping down, over his optics and along his olfactory. Sweet and sugary, yellow like his optics. Like _both_ of their optics. They matched!

A wobbly smile stretched thinly against his faceplate, the sweet and sugary oil dripping into his mouth.

Dripping down, like a stream, down over his unclean features from its source at the gash in his forehelm.

The sharpened stone lay in Deckerd's uncurled servo. It was his fault, obviously.

It was all his fault, wasn't it?

On his hands, everywhere.

Sweet and sugary and oily.

He tried to wash it off, but it _just wouldn't go_.

Like a boy scout clinging onto an instructor.

A roar of frustration rumbled past his vocaliser, and a sob followed it.

Another, another, louder in their harmonious weeping until they reached a crescendo and his vocaliser fizzled into static, crashing into a forced shut down. His mouth stayed agape as the soundless scream carried Gunmax offline, falling limply to the sandy grave beneath.


	6. Chapter 6

Waves lapped at his pedes, softly caressing the rocket boosters and metal framework. The sun shined bright and alone in a cloudless sky. Striking through the impeccable blue would fly the uncommon aircraft, leaving long, thin contrails in their wake. Out of the corner of his vision, an oil tanker manifested.

Oil.

The sweet sweetness of sugar in the oil. Oily, grimy, Sweet, smooth and slippery and _sweet_ as it dripped from his lips.

Like the most sugar-infested of sweets, like the sweetest of candies, like the soft heaven of candy floss and the clouds of pink and rainbow: colours of happiness and contentment and happiness and sweetness.

Oily, grimy, Sweet, smooth and slippery and-

An oil tanker?

Oil, petrol, yellow like the brightest of gold, shiny and transparent and flowing and oily, grimy, sweet-

An oil tanker.

…Oily, grimy, Sweet?

Sweet?

Sweet?!

Gunmax's optics shot open, wide and terrified as he scrambled to Deckerd's side just out of arm's reach.

His optics were wide open, and he saw.

He saw Deckerd.

He saw abandonment, destruction, ruin and a crumbling façade of normality. He saw dented, scratched and scraped paint. He saw a faceplate's once pristine crystalline white fade into a dull grey, a left optic mysteriously cracked, and petrol flow freely from a concerning amount of tears in the sea-like blue of the dead mech's armour.

But he saw Deckerd, and he saw him. Because he saw his lips, and he saw his _smile_. Because no longer did he see it smug in its carefree upturned corners, condescending in its gentleness: the true nature of the gentle display of affection could finally shine through — and then he saw it warm, flowing and delightfully alive in its demure core.

Because finally:

He saw Deckerd.

Abruptly breathless, Gunmax grasped Deckerd's faceplate. Desperately, with haste, yet completely gentle and devoid of malevolence. Slowly, he caressed the smooth metal in an odd mixture of an aching longing and reverence — the surface was soft beneath his digits, soft and grey.

And grey.

Grey?

Death, dead, not alive-

Low fuel, low energy, empty reserves-

"Dekkado," He moaned in panic.

Optics offline, ventilations inaudible, leaking fuel-

"Baby, don't- stay with-" The panic mounted, rising like a wave to soar to the highest of extents, accelerating uncontrollably until it all crashed down.

His love, who he had just killed.

"DECKERD!" He gasped out, sucking invents through his cooling system as his core temperature rose drastically.

"Don't go, stay with me Deckerd, stick in there-" A sharp intake broke his stumbling statement.

"Don't go, come back, I'll bring you back — You're fine. I'm fine. We're both fine."

A steadying invent coursed through his frame as he forced his speech to slow and his resolve to return.

"Come back,"

"I'll bring you back."

Subconsciously, his motors kicked into gear and his rotors began to spin. The sandy grave beneath him blew away in dusty waves as his world narrowed into a dark tunnel and with it the beacon of light beyond.

His arms curled tightly around Deckerd, gripping him unapologetically securely around the detective's backstrut and under his knees. The ascent began with a distinctly determined brevity, and the sentiment echoed brightly in his concealed optics.

The island beneath shrunk smaller and smaller, decreasing in significance as his life moved onto a new chapter. He wasn't ready to die. To lose his sanity was to lose himself; he wasn't ready to die.

Matter of fact, Gunmax had had quite enough of the concept. Its former allure had been corrupted into a greedy void — taking and pulling, sucking in all the things he loved like an infinitely dense black hole.

It was time he stole back what had been stolen.

His attention refocussed to the surrounding sea with his targeting system on full alert, alert for red, black, white.

Alert for a break in the pattern.

Alert for the drab and monotonous paintjob of an oil tanker.

Four times. Four times, four days, every day, every time.

Every time, every day, this time, today.

The oil tanker would cruise by untroubled with lakes worth of their lifeblood, and Gunmax had failed to notice the niggling pattern every time he noticed the similarly niggling detail. Like an afterthought, he had discarded the obvious value of the inconspicuous vehicle each and every time, four times.

_Four times._

A brief surge of hate pierced his core. It was directed at him. It was his, and he was hateful.

A distraction. A distraction from Deckerd — he shook his helm, exasperated.

He couldn't do anything right, no.

No he couldn't, not quite. Not always, that was for certain. But maybe this time. Maybe this time, for Deckerd — Maybe for Deckerd he could do it right. He could do right by Deckerd.

There!

Red, black, white.

He tilted forwards, flying towards the speck in the distance. It grew larger: slowly at first, then faster, nearing quicker and quicker as it accelerated. As _he_ accelerated. It spread from the pinprick of his focus to the entirety of it, then unsurprisingly expanded further until it encompassed the entirety of his vision.

He curled his frame around Deckerd's as he shut off his motors, protecting his passenger and bracing himself in the process.

The impact winded him, stunning him briefly as his optics onlined with shock.

Black surrounded him. Viscous, restraining and soothing as it flowed across and against his chassis. Dipping into transformation seams, squeezing between cables and wires. It caressed him like he had his love.

He released Deckerd from his bridal carry, swimming down to him as he sank.

Breathe, baby.

Take a deep breath, open your mouth, open your optics.

Drink, baby.

His servos reached out to their counterparts', tentatively grabbing them and interlocking their digits.

He squeezed.

Deckerd drifted lethargically to the floor of the tank — cold, unmoving, _lifeless_; lifeless, until suddenly-

-Until suddenly, he wasn't.

Deckerd's optics shot open, wide and terrified. He gasped, gulped, hacked and coughed.

Lean forward.

Why?

Lean forward.

Deckerd's systems flickered online as his HUD lit up in varyingly concerning shades of danger-red alerts and unsettling warnings.

His vents unshuttered quickly, then immediately regretted their error as a slimy liquid spilled into his cooling arrays. Again he gasped, gulped, hacked and coughed. Again he opened his mouth, ventilating, vying for air but instead receiving-

Oil.

Hacking, coughing-

Oil.

The black gold crashed through his throat and into his tanks as his intake was caught unprepared.

He continued, drinking the precious fuel until he was suddenly interrupted as he felt-

A pair of lips smashing into his.

He froze, his optics focussing on his environment.

Black- the petrifying nothingness of the void filled his vision, except, except for-

Gunmax.

Optics offline, lips pressed firmly against his.

It was as he moaned passionately that his servos stilled, awkwardly grabbing at the petrol around him until they reached Gunmax's helm, closing around it uncompromisingly as one of them slid down the frame to rest against his backstrut: comfortable.

Belonging.

A glossa licked boldly at his lips, pressing insistently yet softly against the ultra-sensitive mesh. The hot appendage sent his sensors ablaze as his faceplate heated up and a needy whine filled the silence. It took a moment for the lead detective to recognise it as his own: the articulation had been surreptitiously snuck out his vocaliser without his consent.

Rude.

He groaned slightly as his mouth parted, reciprocating shyly at first, then gaining confidence as the conquest continued, exploring the cavern whilst his glossa battled with Gunmax's in a war for dominance.

It was as Deckerd lost that fight that he began another.

They swam in unison, the visored mech relinquishing control to his lover as Deckerd kicked against the hesitantly yielding substance towards the light, not once parting in their ascent.

They surfaced gasping, winded.

Gunmax's motors reignited, sending droves of black in liquid form flying away, spraying their surroundings like a fountain of youth. Deckerd wrapped his legs around those of Gunmax's, holding on tightly as the rotors stole them away from the tanker into the sky, into the sparse clouds, then above them.

"Gunmax…" Deckerd whined in need, venting heavily.

The teal mech silenced him with a kiss twice as fierce as its predecessor.

They rose like a wave to soar to the highest of extents, accelerating uncontrollably, breaking ground and records as the atmosphere grew thinner and the air grew colder.

They parted with hesitance.

"Gunmax, Gunmax oh my-" A sharp and abrupt intake interrupted him as the victim of his ramblings nipped softly at his neck cabling.

"We need to, need, _ahh Gunmax_-" The ministrations continued.

Deckerd's servos returned to their previous positions on his partner's frame, but he wasn't sure whether he was trying to push the mech away or pull him closer.

"Oh my, oh Gunmax- _please_-" What was he pleading for; What did he want?

His vocabulary could only handle so much undignifying neglect before it, too, broke down. It could barely muster a single, extensively utilised name.

Gunmax.

"ha- _ah- ahh-"_ He gasped uncontrollably as his lover continued unrelentingly. Nips and bites etched pathways into Deckerd's neck cabling, leaving strings of lubricant and imprints of dentae in their tread against the previously unmarred mesh.

The teasing attention and sinful lips rose barely a breath off his neck, the hot exvents forcing shudders down his backstrut.

"Hmm?" Amused, the gravelly voice murmured against his synthetic silicon skin. Blessed with sensors, the area sent bolts of pleasure to his processor as his venting hitched.

He could _feel_ the confident smirk against him.

"We need to, hah, we've got to talk-" He keened in loss as the frame he loved left his, pulling away sharply and leaving an ache of negative space in its wake.

"Deckerd?" The tone was cold, but beneath the surface an underlying concern resonated deeply, closely followed by hurt.

Deckerd vented a steadying intake.

"These always end too quickly without communication — I've, I've seen it happen far too many times: I… I don't. I don't want that for us, Gunmax, love. _I want this_. I want for this to last. Don't- don't burn out the embers before the flames can really start." His optics stayed stubbornly gazing downwards, afraid of-

"Hey." A thumb and a forefinger lightly grasped his chin, tugging his faceplate upwards. His optics averted again, like matching magnetic poles; afraid of-

Afraid of what? Rejection? Anger? Disgust?

…Yes.

This was Gunmax.

…

A small smile curled his lips as he looked up, fear abated slightly.

Kind optics gazed down at his, unfailingly adoring.

"You're right."

Gunmax was watching him.

From across the office, at his desk: his servo on a pen but unmoving and tense. The visor gleaned an enticing gold as his helm tilted microscopically, the light catching its curves and edges in an alluring display of physics and the mech himself. Complete concentration was knitted into his brow, yet he seemed distant from the reality at his digittips. His right pede tapped rhythmically against the metal floor, just out of sight underneath the mech-sized desk and just within hearing as it echoed through Deckerd's helm.

His lips were pursed tightly together, pressing against each other like they had against his not two days ago. Firm and unyielding against his, plush, soft and welcoming. Welcoming him into his life, into his heart. The servo not clenched around a writing utensil rested tightly curled and numbingly clenched against the metallic surface of the teal mech's desk.

To Deckerd, the forty-one hours, thirty-seven minutes and eighteen (nineteen, twenty) seconds they had spent with minimal contact as a result of the team rendezvous left him wanting, irritable and uncomfortably _aching_. He had received many an odd look from his colleagues for his out of character behaviour, and one mech seemed to have solved the mystery on his lonesome.

But he wasn't Gunmax, and he wasn't worth his attention.

A low, unimportant voice drawled quietly to another a few metres away — a gasp responded to the murmur and a chuckle to the intake. Deckerd didn't care. Shadowmaru wasn't Gunmax. Drillboy could be as affronted as he liked, but Deckerd didn't care through his laser-like focus on the mech across the office.

They were staring at each other now, intensely and intently. Gunmax had dropped his pen onto his paperwork, unnoting of the blue strike that had been left behind. His glossa flicked out to lick his lips — a habit he had gained from his former partner — and Deckerd felt his vents hitch as his optics followed the appendage. A soft whine escaped his throat.

A low growl responded.

Shadowmaru threw his servos up in an exasperated huff, stalked towards the exit with his arms crossed, then uncrossed them with a vaguely awkward huff as he reached out to place his servo against the scanner. Drillboy stumbled to follow the larger mech as he stepped out, crashing into him ungracefully as they crossed the threshold in a flurry of limbs. A grunt, grumble, groan and at least four separate apologies tumbled through the closing door before it slid shut with a resounding '_schlk_'.

A passing thought briefly pondered the pair's unprecedented closeness before it was swept away by higher priorities.

For example: the teal mech as he closed in with an unfairly ravenous purr.

For example: fighting the urge to whimper.

The predatory grin widened further as Gunmax witnessed the unfortunate mech's struggle.

"Deckerd," and what was he supposed to do when Gunmax rumbled out his name like _that_? With that perfect inflection, that unapologetic smirk? His self-restraint waned.

"We're all alone,"

oh no.

Deckerd could feel his faceplate searing.

"And I think you and I have some _unfinished business._" He was at his desk now, and both his servos were placed firmly on the surface as he leaned in.

The teal mech licked his lips again as his optics raked over Deckerd's frame, and _that's not fair_, and Deckerd's control slips as he finally whines low and long and needy and _wanting_.

Their lips smashed together, and he opened his mouth readily. Gunmax's glossa stroked his, _caressed_ his, battled his. Optics met, he moaned, and his lover's arms snaked around his middle. Deckerd responded in kind as he grabbed at the visored mech's shoulders tightly: unyieldingly. He keened desperately, more a plea than a request, more a demand than a suggestion, more. He needed _more_.

Suddenly, he pulled back, gasping. He was the perfect picture of debauchery — his lips glimmered with oral lubricant and his vents worked overtime as they attempted to cool his burning core with little success. His optics were dim and unfocussed and looked for all intents and purposes as if they were one misplaced word away from shedding tears. In spite of this, a wide grin stretched across his faceplate as he looked at the mech not a hair's breadth apart from him.

His frame was motionless against Deckerd, still like a boulder. A very handsome, very attractive boulder.

"Dekkado?" It was the second time he had interrupted a kiss at its zenith, and Gunmax was beginning to sense a pattern. Deckerd puffed, then opened to open his mouth only to gasp as his vents begged for relief.

"Hah, I- I don't think I've said this yet, and I, I really need to, because…"

Gunmax felt the small frown lift as he smiled softly, encouragingly.

Deckerd returned it in kind, assured.

"I love you."

Deckerd sighed in relief as a weight he didn't know existed in the first place was lifted. He reached upwards with his mouth and placed a quick peck on Gunmax's stunned lips. Deckerd backed away quickly, shyly, but he looked to the teal mech for a response all the same.

Optics snapped down towards his, and stunned lips curved upwards at the edges.

"And I love you, too."

And then he was surrounded again, by love, by heart-warming affection, by unbridled adoration, by Gunmax; their lips met again, then again, and they both grinned widely as they both leaned in one last time, then another because there was no way they were giving this up for the whole world.

Deckerd nuzzled his cheek against the white silicone of Gunmax's, and the gold of the teal mech's optics shined brightly behind his visor. It lit up both of their faceplates in an amber glow.

"I love you." They said, together.

A/N:

The end!

Hope you guys enjoyed it, this was the first time I've ever finished a project I started, and even though it's only 11,000 words, it's taken me a straight month to finish this. Oops. Deckmax FTW!

Since nobody else seems to have agreed on a name, I'm making one for ye.

Glory to episode 21.


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